Dude Dean Afternoon
by Piker Benunder
Summary: When the Winchesters are on one of their usual timeouts, neither of them wants to deal with the other. But that quickly changes once Sam receives a call from a distressed Dean. Something bit him, and now he's turning. Not into a vampire or werewolf, but something much worse and horrible. Now, he needs Sam's help more than ever.


Sam Winchester walked along the main street of International Falls, Minnesota. It was a quiet evening, light traffic, pleasant weather. Exactly right to calm down after the latest antics. He wasn't getting any younger, and life as a hunter was getting more and more arduous, slowly but steadily taking its toll on him. The gravel under his feet scrunched audibly, he strolled aimlessly and watched people go about their lives, unaware of monsters, demons, and angels. How he had sometimes longed for a normal life, to have lived a life away from all that he had to endure. But that dream had long since died and been buried deep. A few years ago he would have grieved about it, now it didn't upset him any more. He wasn't sad about _that_, either, because he didn't feel he had just surrendered to his destiny. He had accepted who he was and the role he had to play, and from that role he grew into who he truly was, it gave him a purpose in life. And he was truly happy about that since for the most part, he liked what he was doing. Saving lives, on occasion the world or reality itself, meeting interesting people, learning new things, being out in the open, and eating as much junk food as he wanted – albeit not as much as Dean, admittedly. It took a while, but eventually, he realised that not everything in his life was as horrible as he had thought for years.

A muffled, tinny guitar snapped him out of his thoughts – his phone. The display read, 'Richard Guzzler', one of Dean's aliases. The two were on one of their seemingly regularly scheduled timeouts. Neither remembered exactly what had transpired, but they were equally hard-headed and stubborn, meaning one of them had to be at death's door before they confessed they did, in fact, like and care for each other. Sam both feared and hoped the call might be because of such a case.

He took the call. "Dean?"

"S-Sammy?" Dean's voice was weak and he was breathing heavily.

"Dean, is everything alright?"

"Sam, I… I…" Just from his voice alone, it was obvious Dean had trouble raising the phone to his face. Or staying conscious.

"Are you still there? Dean! What's going on?" By now, Sam was hurriedly walking back to his rental car; the Impala was still with Dean.

"Linden… Texas… I… something bit me… it's changing me…"

"Bitten? Where exactly are you? Dean!" This was bad. Usually, Dean could handle any bite well on his own, no matter what monster the perpetrator. For him to call out of the blue… Sam couldn't stomach thinking about what this entailed.

A pained voice uttered, "Y- yo dude, come on over here, brah." Then the connection was lost.

Dean spoke in tongues! Such a strange language Sam had never heard before. It was similar to English, yet very foreign and alien. Irritated, Sam put away his phone. No matter what had happened between them, he knew when his brother needed his aid. The situation was urgent, so he immediately hit the road towards Linden, Texas.

* * *

The Impala came to a halt in the parking lot of a shabby motel – just as Sam and Dean liked it. Slightly off the beaten track, yet with good connections to the central parts of town, nobody asked questions or cared about them. Thus the first place where Sam searched for Dean. Should he not be there, Sam at least had a place to stay.

Dirt scraped under his shoes, the dusty and sticky air hit him like one of Cas' fully powered angel-punches upon exiting the Impala. Tediously he dragged himself to the reception, beads of sweat forming all over his face. The door opened with a happy little jingle. A small, old lady sitting at the counter, a ceiling fan, a machine for ice cubes – the usual.

"Hello darling, what can I do for you today?" she asked joyfully. Sam felt right at home.

"I am looking for this man. He's my brother." He held up a photo of Dean. "Have you seen him?"

The woman leaned forward and examined it thoroughly. "That is an older picture, isn't it? Yes, a man who looked like him rented a room the day before yesterday, only he seemed more… how do young people say nowadays? He looked more gnarly."

"Gnarly?"

"Er, well, pardon my French, young man, but he was… much cooler." She giggled amusedly.

Sam's expression reflected his mild confusion. Much cooler? Dean was as far away from being cool as Cas was from Heaven. Although that would make it extremely easy for Dean to be much cooler than before, thinking about it. No matter; what was important was finding Dean, and Sam had just unexpectedly gotten much closer to achieving that. "Okay, er, thanks. Could you tell me where I can find him? It's very important!"

"You seem like a trustworthy young man, just like my little Jimmy. Room number three, it is right around the corner," she indicated that he had to go through the door somewhere to the right of her, "then the third door on the left side once you've left the hallway."

"Thanks, you've been a great help." Sam turned around and walked briskly toward the door.

"Oh, you know, my Jimmy-"

Sam went through the door and set out for Dean's room. As the woman described, he turned right, paced a few steps, turned right again, and crossed the hallway. He almost forgot what room exactly he was supposed to look for, the unbearable heat taking its toll on him, but impossibly to miss loud music guided him to where he was needed. Just what kind of music was that? Sam recognised guitars, drums, and bass as well, but it was so wildly different from what Dean usually listened to. The vocals sounded like rap. Rock and rap? Who would do such a thing and who would listen to that voluntarily? Perhaps he was being held captive and tortured?

Sam hurried to help Dean as fast as possible. Be it because of a possibly dangerous hostage situation or the bite and Dean's deteriorating health, his aid was vital in any case. Standing in front of the room's door, he heard some sort of scream or shout distinct from the music, which sounded like Dean's voice, though not like he was in pain. Was he woohoo-ing? Sam tried to pick out more through the noise, but he could discern nothing else. Given the talkative nature of their usual captors, he concluded that Dean was most likely alone. Carefully spying through the window, he failed to see anything. Before doing something rash, he called Dean's phone. If he truly was a hostage, either someone else would answer it, or he could convey a secret message.

He actually picked up. "Yo, Sammy-Boy, whazzup?" Sam could hardly understand him with the loud music playing in the background.

"...Whazzup? Dean, are you alright?"

"Sure, everything's fresh and tight."

"Dean, I'm in front of your room. Can you let me in?"

"Why didn't you say so, bro?" The door swung open. "Welcome to my crib!"

Sam almost didn't recognise him. Phone in one hand, a can of Monster Energy in the other. His hair was spiked up with frosted tips, he wore a black short-sleeved shirt with blue flames, the collar of which was popped up, as well as bleached jeans shorts. Sunglasses hid his eyes, a soul patch adorned his chin, and his blindingly white smile was crowned by a rhinestone on one teeth.

"Dean?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"Come in, bro!" Dean shouted, extending his arms. "Mi casa es tu casa."

Loudly bellowing and partying, he drove on a skateboard back in and through the room. A sick ollie over the bed impressed even Sam. He was indeed pretty damn cool, Sam thought, while Dean crushed the empty can against his forehead and threw it against a wall, where it bounced to a chair and from there into the garbage can.

"Yo Sammy, did ya see that? Wicked awesome!"

"Er, yeah, totally wicked. Dean, listen. You…" Sam started, to quickly realise the loud music wasn't beneficial to a proper conversation. He went to Dean's laptop and closed it shut, instantly stopping the music and calming the room. For a short moment, Sam's ears rang lightly.

"Hey man, not cool," Dean shouted, visibly shaken.

"Dean, listen to me. I don't know what's going on, but you're acting weird, not like you. You are… different, changed. You need to realise that."

Dean took a bottle of Mountain Dew, punctured its bottom with a knife and let its content drip into his mouth. "Yeah, now I'm totally gnarly and oozing with swag!" The drink was still flowing into his mouth while he talked, meaning it was also flowing onto the floor and spilling on his surroundings, drenching them in sugary liquids.

Sam quickly took a step back to avoid any splashes and marvelled at Dean's ability to stay completely dry. What any of the prattle Dean had uttered was supposed to mean he did not dare seek an answer to. "Do you remember calling me a few days ago? You said you were bitten. Tell me what happened."

"I was bitten, duh. Little slow on the uptake? Gotta get your brain checked out, I'm tellin' ya."

Sam pursed his lips. "I meant, what bit you?"

"Some rad guy. And when I say rad, I mean glow-in-the-dark rad, dude. He had grills on his teeth, Sammy. Grills!" Dean pointed at his grills-less teeth, desperate for Sam to understand his pure, heartfelt admiration. "Ya shoulda seen that. But, well," he winked at Sam, smiling, "then he put 'em in me. If ya know what I'm sayin'."

"I… think I do?"

Dean put up his hands. "No homo, bro. Well, a little homo. Platonically."

It was a tough challenge for Sam to keep both the conversation and Dean focused on the main topic – his being bitten by a monster that was still running free, endangering innocent people. "So you've been bitten by something that disguised itself as…" Sam looked at Dean from head to toe. He wasn't sure what exactly to call what he had become.

His hesitation didn't remain unnoticed. "As a totally dope dude," Dean helpfully ended his sentence.

"Right."

"Maybe it wasn't a disguise, and he was some kinda sick vampire. Normal one bites ya, ya turn into a lame vamp… a lamp. One of those bad boys gets ya, you get as wild as me! I'm not a vamp, aight, just sayin' I'm like a dank vamp, without bein' one. A damp."

"Yeah, I got it."

All the while, Dean kept on driving his skateboard, doing the occasional kickflip or ollie, grinding over a table or bed. "Ya know what? I'm liking the new me. I mean look at me, Sammy-Boy, I'm bonzer to the max," he said and casually flexed his biceps. On the skateboard. "New year new me, and it ain't even Christmas yet."

Sam had absolutely no clue what any of that was supposed to mean, but context clues provided him with enough information to guess that it was something positive. "You can't stay like this, it's not you! We have to find that thing, whatever it was, and kill it, so you can get back to normal." There was no guarantee it was going to work, of course. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and Sam tried everything he could to get Dean to cooperate. "Besides, who knows how dangerous it is. To you and to other people," he said, attempting to sound as empathetic as possible. He may not have understood the strange words uttering forth from Dean's mouth, as it were, but he deciphered the message – Dean's wish to stay like that. Sam sympathised with him. Those cool moves, that radiating charisma, the unbridled machismo, all so tempting. Having tasted that power even once, one would never want to lose it. He knew it all too well himself; consequently, he knew how important it was to restore Dean to his former self.

"Oh yeah? Why? You're just jealous, brah." At that moment, Sam learned how condescendingly the word 'brah' can be pronounced.

A hard knock, because there was a grain of truth to it. Sam looked to the ground, distraught, suppressing tears under great effort. Luckily he knew precisely what to say. He raised his head and gazed straight into Dean's sunglasses-covered eyes. "Because we're family. You're my brother."

"Mhm, mhm, aight. Ya got that right, true that. Can't go on like this, fo' sho'." Dean jumped up and, upon landing, flipped the skateboard into his stretched out hand. He didn't even look at any of it. Damn, Sam thought. "Then let us go huntin' some jabroni."

On a map of the city, Dean noted where he'd been ambushed by the monster. Together with the other incidents he had previously been investigating, a pattern emerged that could lead them to the monster's possible hideout. "Looks good," Sam said. "It's not dark yet. Think we should wait until dawn, in case it hunts during the night?"

"Nah, I got done in by that thing during the day. Let's go now, so we can kizzle that bizzle p to the ronto, if ya catch my drift."

"…right," Sam agreed with a confused expression. On the way to the motel room's door, he added, "I don't think we'll need the skateboard."

"Oh, right, true that," Dean said and wistfully laid the skateboard on a bed, gently resting his hand on it for two seconds.

* * *

Together they walked to the Impala. The harsh contrast between the air-conditioned motel room and the sticky outdoors took its toll on them. Breathing was a chore and sweat ran down their faces – perfect for cranking down the windows while driving and dangling the arms. Gotta see the positive side of things, was something Sam had learned over the years.

They didn't talk much during the drive, mainly because Dean indulged his desire to loudly accompany every song on the radio. To Sam's surprise, Dean knew all the lyrics. Who was currently singing, or about what, or whatever kinds of strange instruments were used, all of that was a mystery to Sam. He tried to distract himself with his books, maybe he would find some hidden info on what they were hunting. Just what was he supposed to search for? Highly doubtful a monk from the 16th century would be knowledgable on the behaviour and habitat of dude-monsters.

"Over there." Dean nodded in the direction of a back alley behind a bar, while they stopped at one of its parking spots at the side of the street. "That's where I was bitten. Dude sucker punched me while was all, like, sherlocking for clues and shit. No fair fight, lemme tell ya, bro, otherwise I'd have whacked that sucker like it ain't no thang, ya dig?"

"What kind of clues?" Sam asked uneasily.

"What do I know, am I the popo? Blood, guts, that stuff. We should focus on the muy importante business, brah, and that's some guy blindsiding me. Me! From behind, that sissy! That ain't OK with my street cred, man, not at all. Gotta set the record straight."

"I get it, man, I do. Just don't do anything rash, alright?"

"Yeah yeah, whatevs."

They walked over to where Dean had been ambushed. It hadn't rained for a few days and no one seemed to bother cleaning up, so most of the blood was still there. According to Dean, everything was roughly the same as when he last saw it, directly before being viciously attacked. A fallen over garbage can, coupled with a small amount of debris in its vicinity – that definitely wasn't from Dean's struggle, he assured Sam –, led them to believe an altercation had taken place; the victim evidently struggled against the attacker. Given their experience, they judged it had, however, only been a brief fight. The low amount of blood indicated the victim hadn't died, at least not from blood loss, meaning either the attacker had carried them off or the victim left on their own.

Crouching down to get a better look at the crime scene, Sam asked, "Do you remember what happened after the fight?"

A few meters to the side, Dean was admiring himself in the reflection of a metal dumpster, carefully rearranging individual spikes of hair. "Nah, the last thing I remember is being bitten. Hurt like cray-cray. Whoo boy, that was a nasty son of a biatch. Couple hours later, I wake up here, with the sudden urge to splash some cash on some new bling and groovy clothes. New year, new me, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yeah, you already said that," Sam mumbled and ran a finger over a dried splatter of blood. "Maybe that's what happened to the other victim. Gets attacked by the monster, fights back, gets bitten and blacks out. I'm guessing the other scenes were pretty much the same."

"Correctomundo."

It was then Dean briefly spotted someone very peculiar walking on the pavement opposite the bar. A man wearing a similar shirt and sunglasses, spiked hair with frosted tips; he was almost a carbon copy of Dean, just more weight around the belly and less upper arm girth. "See that guy? That swagger, that bravado, it's gotta be him. I'm gonna ice him, Sammy-Boy, Imma do it."

"Dean, wait, what if that's-" was all Sam managed to say before Dean sprinted off and rushed out of the back alley. "Dammit!"

"Hey, you! Pendejo! Remember me?" Dean shouted, his arms stretched out. "Come at me, bro!"

The other guy took off his sunglasses, an expression of utter confusion and slight panic on his face. Few people show bravery when roughly 200 pounds of pure muscle come charging at them. "Sorry, y-you must mistake me for someone. I don't know who you are."

By now, Dean had almost reached him in his strut full of anger. "Maybe if I turn around you'll recognise me." The man struck out his hands in a protective manner, stumbling backward, mumbling, _Don't hurt me, please_, over and over. "Not so tough now, when ya can't surprise me from behind, sucker."

Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders and stopped him before he could do anything worse than hurl verbal abuse at the poor man. As if that wasn't bad enough already. "Stop, it's not who we're looking for! Just look at him."

A broken, confused soul cowered in front of Dean, practically begging for his life. All around them, people stared, some slack-jawed, some disgusted, all in disbelief. A woman in a nearby cafe was on the phone, obviously calling the police. No fake badge would get them out that mess.

"Uh…" Dean had to think quickly to diffuse the situation. "We're best bros! That's why we're both dressed like this. It's our routine. Right, muchacho?"

"Please, just don't hurt me," the man whimpered.

"See? Bestest of buddies," Dean said, smiling, and hurried back to the Impala, Sam in tow.

They drove away as fast as they could, wheels spinning and screeching. "Your enthusiasm is appreciated," Sam said, careful not to sound too pissed off. "But, and I'm not happy I have to tell you this, we cannot harass innocent people, let alone beat the crap out of them, no matter how ridiculous they're dressed. No offense."

Dean tore his gaze away from the sun visor's mirror and looked at Sam quizzically. "What? Uh, yeah, totally. Word, bro." And back to caring for his precious hair he went.

Parking on the side of the road a significant distance away from the previous incident, Sam unfolded a large map in front of him. Seven circles indicated where all the attacks had happened. With the added last one, a pattern emerged. A quick online search told them they were all in a certain radius around an abandoned warehouse, where Sam obviously suspected the monster's hideout to be. "Let's go there, don't see what else we could do. Dean, you with me?"

"Yeah, when it comes to icing that mofo, I'm as hot as, well," he smiled and pointed to himself, "me."

Sam's response was incredulous look and a tsk.

"Hey man, I'm feelin' sexy and free, and no matter what shizzle you sizzle, you ain't takin' that away from mizzle, aight?"

"I really don't get what kind of subculture that thing turned you into." All he knew was that his lingo was beginning to creep into his mind, take hold of him. When he judged Dean's actions, words like gnarly, sick or even something like wicked spontaneously came to him. Was it an airborne disease? No, it couldn't have been; more people would have turned. In any case, he tried to counteract this mental virus, for lack of a better description, by going to the opposite end of the linguistic spectrum. _Shall I compare thee to a summer's day_, he began reciting in his head.

"The swag one, bro. With lots'a bling and style, baby."

"Yeah, right. Of course." _Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade…_

* * *

The next minutes until their arrival were spent in blissful silence, apart from the constant camera shutter noise from Dean's phone, who was busy taking selfie after selfie. Still, Sam was content listening to that, when the alternative was Dean talking in a language Sam didn't quite comprehend yet nonetheless upset him for some reason. Funny that, he thought. Must have been similar to hearing ancient texts harbouring unspeakable evils being read: even though nothing was intelligible, one subconsciously realised something was terribly wrong with both the words themselves and how they were arranged.

Their destination was even more rundown than they had imagined. Broken windows, plaster chipping off the walls, battered doors, plants growing wildly – it certainly made for a living that was as uncomfortable as it was inconspicuous. The sun was beginning to set, colouring the sky in gorgeous shades of red and orange. Not too long before it would be pitch-black.

What exactly they were dealing with remained a mystery, thus they didn't know the tools required to take it down. Going with the essentials never hurt – pistols, silver bullets and knives, shotgun, holy water, and the old Winchester bravado. Loaded and ready to go, Sam cautiously pushed the warehouse's decrepit front door to the side, trying to remain silent and undetected. Dean followed him, not quite as hunched over and wearing a bored expression on his face. Cobwebs littered the hallways, and through the illuminated specks of dust swirling around Sam managed to spot footprints, leading towards the main hall. He signalled Dean to follow him, while he carefully pushed forward, stopping at and peaking around each corner. Even though he didn't see him, Sam could feel Dean growing restless behind him. His transformation had shortened his attention span even further than it already was. Stealthily sneaking around wasn't in his gusto, especially not when they expected to face only a single monster; a monster that hurt his pride, no less. His wanting to burst through the front door, guns blazing and short-sleeved shirt blowing in inexplicable wind, was palpable to Sam. He tried his best to both exert calm and not agitate him in any way.

After an excruciating, drawn-out walk through the hallways that almost triggered Sam's dust allergy, following barely recognisable footprints, they arrived at the main hall. Its metal door was resting in a rusted iron frame that wouldn't hold up to a light gust of wind. They heard faint footsteps and coughing on the other side.

Sam held up his hand, wanting to form a plan of attack. Judging by the door's poor condition, opening it would be impossible without causing a major ruckus. Perhaps one of them could find a different entry to perform a flanking manoeuvre or search for a vantage point. Dean, unsurprisingly, had a slightly different approach in mind. He pushed Sam to the side, kicked the door open with a loud bang and shouted, "Hey bitch, guess who's back!"

Said bitch was a man dressed the same as Dean; same shirt, same shorts, same sunglasses. The major difference between them was that this man was terribly old and frail, and his right arm was covered in a tribal tattoo. Bald and, by the looks of it, hardly a muscle in his body, he was far from imposing, and Sam wondered how such a man could possibly have gotten the better of Dean, even with the element of surprise. Though he had had his fair share of fights with deceivingly frail creatures himself, and corresponding scars to boot.

The man coughed. "Welcome to my crib, bro. Took ya long enough to find me." This was definitely the right man – or creature –, Sam was certain of that.

"I'm the cleverest son of a bitch there is, and you know it." Dean neglected to mention Sam doing most of the heavy mental lifting, which, admittedly, was nothing more than scribbling on a map. Mental lifting was for nerds, Dean thought; he was obviously the guy for physical lifting, as evidenced by his ripped, shredded body. "Time to say sayonara, dickhead."

The man extended his arms. Faintly, Sam remembered having seen that pose before. "I'd tell ya to come at me, bro, but that's hardly necessary, is it? I took you down before, and I can do it again and again and again. I've swaggered across the globe before your daddy laid eyes on yo' momma. Ya got no frickin' idea whatcha dealin' with, aight?"

An iridescent smile lit up the room. "I know just what kinda bad boy you are," Dean said. "You're a swagger, a real brah."

"Respect, bro. Mighty fine deduction you did with, like, your brain." The man clapped sarcastically, smiling smugly. "Anyone with eyes can see I'm the livin' embodiment of swag, yo."

Dean continued unperturbed. "But not just any brah. The alpha. The brahlpha. That's why you tried to turn me; you're missing a gang, and that's super whack. What you wanted, and what you needed, was some of this," Dean said and kissed his biceps. "My sick gains for your own gain. I'm so super buff I would have crushed any loser who tried to push us around. But what you didn't catch was that the brain's a muscle, and I'm damn swole in the head."

The arrogant grin hadn't left the brahlpha's face. "Ya got me. But if ya figured all that out, then why'd ya come here, bro? Ya know ya can't ice me with those lame-ass bangers ya got there."

"Oh yeah?" Dean said, aimed his pistol at the brahlpha sideways and shot him straight in the head. It jerked back violently, then slowly moved back forward, the wound healing before their eyes. "Damn."

"_Damn straight_," the brahlpha said, coughing. "The years ain't been kind to me, yo, but that I can still take no problemo. Like it or not, you're my bro now, and real bros can never hurt each other."

Sam cocked his shotgun. "Then what about me?"

"You're my bro's bro, bro. Not a chance you could put a scratch on me. That's the bro code." For the first time, the brahlpha directly acknowledged Sam's presence. His demeanour instantly became more irritated and condescending, as if he was talking to a child that didn't belong.

"Oh, I get it now," Dean said. "Back when you turned me, dude, I was like, damn, this hurts. Not the gash on my neck. No, it wasn't the physical pain, but, like, the brainy one. Now I know why, and I know just what you thrive on: street cred." Dean paused dramatically and, equally as dramatically, struck a small pose. To any onlooking bystander, they failed to have their intended effect. "So there's only one way to put you sucker five feet under. Sammy, lay down a tight beat."

"…what?"

A deep sigh straight from the heart. "Acoustic freestyle it is." Dean cleared his throat. "Yo yo yo."

"No, you can't!" For a reason Sam couldn't yet grasp, the brahlpha started to panic.

Dean held an imaginary microphone to his mouth. "Holla holla, this is MC Deanomite, and I'm… so so tight and here to fight. You will know my name when I lay down the pain, comin' through like a freight train."

An impromptu diss track! Although he wasn't well-versed in the finer intricacies of rap, even Sam realised Dean's flow was awful and both his rhymes and his verse structure left a lot to be desired. Through his auditory pain and misery, though, Sam saw the brahlpha coiling in agony. "It's working, keep going!" he shouted.

Fuelled by Sam's positive reinforcement, Dean had absolutely no intention to stop. He cracked his neck before continuing, "That there is my Sammy-boy, and he ain't here to toy. When we came here lookin' for you, we thought we'd find a threat. But seein' you now I realise, you probably wet your bed." A wet splashing sound did indeed reverberate around the hall, the brahlpha violently puking his guts out – judging by its contents, quite literally. _Dude, my liver_, Sam heard among the gagging and retching. "I don't need a mic or beat, no sir I really don't. The girls they like my heat, aha, and all they do is moan. And uh, you're not my fave, so you'd best behave or I'll put you to the grave. Forget about that, you and your big stupid tat, I'll end you right now, stat." Dean finished his impromptu rap by pointing a finger gun at the brahlpha and pulling the trigger, in one smooth move putting his index finger to his mouth while dropping the imaginary mic with his other hand.

"You biiitch…", were the last, drawn-out words the brahlpha managed to spit out before liquifying in front of them, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of blood and innards.

Sam looked hopefully to Dean, who as of yet remained unchanged. "That went better than expected," he said in an effort to lighten the mood.

"Aight, now what, cuz Imma still feelin' wickedy whack-" Dean said, abruptly falling to the floor, gripping his stomach and moaning in pain.

"Hey, hold on!"

Dean, under heavy exhaustion, raised a hand. "Stay back!"

Then the transformation began. His hair lost its spikiness and returned to its normal hue; the blue flames on his shirt faded away; when he screamed in anguish, Sam saw his teeth get a shade or two less fluorescent, while the rhinestone broke into small pieces that reflected the last rays of the evening sun; lastly, his sunglasses slid off of his nose, dropping to the ground with a clang. Dean kept lying on the floor, breathing heavily.

"Dean?" Sam asked cautiously.

After a few seconds, Dean stood up on wobbly legs. Sam immediately rushed to his side to prop him up. "I got you, man. Take it slow. How are you feeling?"

"Like… me. The real me. I could kill for some burgers and pie right now."

"Yeah, that's you, alright. Come on, let's go get you some of that."

On their way out, Dean made sure to step on the sunglasses.

* * *

The Impala's radio was finally playing songs Sam recognised again. That was Dean's first action after sitting down behind the wheel, followed by leaning back and letting the comfortable feeling of being back to his old self in their old car wash over him, accompanied by classic rock. It was a clear night and the moon shone brightly. Roaring the engine, they started driving.

"So, MC Deanomite…"

"Stop."

"Gotta say, you've got some mad flow. Wickedy wha-"

"I said stop. We're never talking about this again. It never happened." Dean's gaze was focused straight ahead.

"Alright," Sam said, chuckling.

"But, I want to say… thanks. You supported me and took care of me while I was a disgusting freak."

"And don't forget about the last 24 hours."

"I'm trying to have a moment here! Just listen, okay?" Dean kept staring forward, eyes on the road. "Great, now I've lost my thought. Anyway, point is, I just want you to know that, no matter what, you're my bro and my brah. You always will be."

Sam patted him on the back. "You too, man." Yet he couldn't completely suppress a light chuckle. But now that the adrenalin had subsided and Sam could finally relax, there was something about Dean he suddenly noticed. "Hey, you still got your soul patch! What if you've not turned back completely? We need to-"

"Uh, yeah, about that." Sooner or later, the truth would have emerged, and yet, Dean had hoped it wouldn't have come to that. But there was no avoiding it any longer, he had to come clean. "I wanted to try something new, so I… yeah." Not wanting to dig his hole any deeper, he shut up and swallowed awkwardly – his pride, mostly.

"Oh." What else was there for Sam to do but snort mischievously?

"Shut up," Dean said, and they carried on driving through the night.


End file.
